Gospel Unwritten
by babybluecas
Summary: There is a story The Winchester Gospel never told. And it needs to be told.
Years from now, they will raise cathedrals.

In years, in dozens, maybe. They will build churches:

of Unholy Dean,

of Martyr Sam's Sacred Heart.

They will raise their buildings tall and proud, in the image of those gothic basilicas, with soaring towers of red bricks and stained glass. They'll be reaching up to Heavens, to the once absent God. But there won't be any crosses.

Into those churches, misguided will come people, to gather one next to another, to fill their heads and to pray and to remember - to retell the stories once too many retold. They'll open their new Bibles, they'll speak the words of the Third Testament.

They will not recognize the words to be mere lies of green serpents, chosen with care.

Words written in black ink by those who call themselves creators - as if they were the ones to forge the history in white marble;

all they'll do is carve it in dead wood,

dab at the deep wounds with shards of glass,

un-sing the song of songs robbed of rhythm and rhyme.

All their power that will have been, veiled in cowardice, at the root of the passages of their blasphemous Gospels. Stories brought to life by the tongues of millions.

All stories but the one that needs to be told, to be passed down through generations to come.

The most sacred story; the holiest love.

And then in those dozens of years, in hundreds, maybe, when the Winchester Churches will have bloomed far and wide, preaching of the post-apocalyptic stories that were never really that important, there will come a man and he'll sit among the misguided.

His hair will be gray and thin, his beard will be long. In his trembling fingers, he'll hold yellowed pages, wrinkled and worn out like his own body. He'll wear them out further, soaking them with the sweat of his palms, he'll tear his throat down with the words of the Righteous Story which he'll tell to anyone who'll listen.

And to those who won't listen he'll tell it as well.

In the end, he'll be beaten and stoned and chased away for preaching heresy about Unholy Dean and about Castiel. And he'll be healing his wounds for a long time, until they won't heal anymore and he'll move on, preaching the tale elsewhere.

Because maybe if his words reach every ear, someone will believe.

Or maybe no one will.

But the story must be told, the one that no eye will find on the pages of the Winchester Bible.

The story of Unholy Dean and Castiel.

The story of Dean and Cas's love.

"You see, the angel sacrificed everything for the man and it broke him," the old man will say.

And they will all nod their heads and raise their arms, for there was an angel and then he fell.

"And then the man picked up the pieces and mended the angel," he'll say to the puzzled faces.

"And the angel mended the man, for he, too, was broken," he'll call out to turning heads and whispers.

"And they held each other like a man holds a woman until they became one in body as they had been one in soul," he'll bellow with voice trembling but strong over the uproar that'll grow still stronger.

They will rise against him with their mouths foul within those walls, on their hallowed ground. For they will not know of such things to be true or to be right.

"Who are you?" some will ask, for his name will have been long scratched off the pages in the volumes they'll no longer consider holy, and forgotten. "Who are you to spread this heresy?"

"Who are you to speak of sodomy." For they'll no longer know of love.

"Who are you to speak ill of our savior." For they'll no longer know of free will.

They'll only know darkness.

And the first stone will crash against the muscle and another against the bone, but the man will only speak yet louder, of shared breaths and apple pie slices, of blue oceans reflecting the stars in golden constellations, of crow's feet and stitched up wounds and bittersweet endings.

Of purest love they will never know and never understand for it was taken from them and destroyed by those who were to create; forbidden.

And maybe there will be one that'll believe, a heart open and lonesome. Or a heart that has loved. And they will hold the story close to that heart and go spread it further and wider, to every ear the old, old man cannot reach. Or maybe they will see the cracked skin and broken bones, the crimson rivers flooding the hallowed ground and they'll let the fear overcome them. They'll hide, away from the world, and will forever hold their tongue.

And so the man will go, alone, on his feet bleeding from walking, body an open wound. And he'll travel from one cathedral to another, from a church of Martyr Sam's to a church of Unholy Dean and again. And he'll walk so long as he can, until his old, ruined body crumbles, until his ghost gives out.

And he'll never once doubt the importance of it all, he'll never question if it's all worth it, for he'll know that, though loathed and erased and destroyed, a story of love so great can never remain a story never told.


End file.
